


let's do some living after we die

by kimbiablue



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, John is blown the fuck away by this dude that looks like his dead soulmate, M/M, Sherlock/Doctor Strange crossover, but he still frots him lmao, dicks doth toucheth within these pages, honestly this started as a crack fic but somehow it became reichenangst??, oh there's angst yeah idk, that last tag was thanks to a tumblr joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbiablue/pseuds/kimbiablue
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and John meets Stephen Strange. Things get weird, and things get hot. Started as a crack fic that somehow turned into 3500 words of angst and sex.





	let's do some living after we die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itsallfine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/gifts).



> What started out as a crack idea between myself and Itsallfine, based on [her crack fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10684725), which is based on [One Night in Karachi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393510) by unknownsister, ended up this angst sex fest. I'm trash enough that I'll probably ending up writing a crack threesome fic in companion to our legacy of crack fics. Idk what's become of my life. Enjoy. :D

 

John's first thought as he takes in the sight before him is,  _ If Sherlock isn’t really dead, I’m going to kill him myself. _

He'd heard the commotion from down the street, three passersby grouped over a grounded, though not prone, man. The shout of “is anyone a doctor?” had sent him running their way until the man lifted his head and John had frozen in place.

Perhaps his very first thought isn't actually a thought at all.  _ Shock grief hope anger love.  _ A tsunami of emotions that must show on his face, because the man, outlandishly dressed and sporting a cut to the temple, gets to his feet and eyes John with more concern that it seems he feels for his own predicament, before asking, “So… where am I, exactly?”

The clothing. The heavy American accent. The close-cropped hair and stylized beard. John isn't buying it for a second.

“Right,” he says, words choked with emotion as his fists clench and his body slides into an aggressive stance. “What the  _ hell _ is this? Sherlo-”

His voice breaks, but the seething fire inside carries him on.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He spits the name, fists closing in heavy blue fabric before he realizes he's moved forward. “Start talking. Right  _ fucking  _ now.”

The man blinks in front of him, still the picture of bewilderment, as John hears whispers behind him of “ _ Sherlock Holmes, that detective that killed himself? _ ” and “ _ Are they both a little mad, you think? _ ”

It takes less than three seconds of glaring into this man's eyes for John to know that it isn't Sherlock. They're disturbingly similar, as with everything else about him under the hair and beard, but they're not  _ his.  _ John knows.

He steps away from the man, blinking rapidly, chest heaving, hand trailing over the large golden pendant the man wears, as he releases the tunic. For a moment, he doesn't know what to say, but what he does know is that he needs to talk with this man.

“Forgive the misunderstanding,” he manages in the direction of the assembled onlookers, impatient to get them moving along. “I'll help this man out, I'm a doctor, thank you for your concern.”

He turns his head to the man, hoping he'll concede, and he does, with an awkward half-smile and incline of the head toward the group. The behavior is so reminiscent of Sherlock that John is left winded and desperate to make sense of it all.

As the people disperse, John takes another step back to face the man directly. His brain continues to assault him with the notion that it's Sherlock playing dress up, lying, deceiving, tormenting him.

“I take it you… mistook me for someone,” the man says after several moments of silence, and the American accent is distinct enough that it helps the disconnect for John, and he's grateful.

“Yeah, I. Yeah.” John runs a hand through his hair. “God, but you look like him.”

“Aaaand he… wronged you? That's my best guess, man.” The stranger shifts, looking around with what still appears to be confusion. “Not exactly what you expect when a doctor comes running.”

“Yeah, sorry, I…” The situation at hand catches up with John, and he pushes the weight of emotion to the side in an effort to be a bloody doctor. “Look, this isn't the place. Can I escort you to A&E? Or if you prefer…”

John shouldn't offer this. He falters, and the man's eyes, not Sherlock's but piercing and captivating all the same, seem to alight at the implied suggestion.

“It's... well, it doesn't seem to be a serious injury,” John continues, light-headed and nervous, but with his body thrumming in a way it hasn't since before Sherlock had gone. “And you seem lost. I… I actually  _ am  _ a doctor, I could patch you up at my place, pretty close by, send you on your way without unnecessary procedure.”

The strange man doesn't reply, considering John's offer as he touches fingertips to his temple.

“And frankly, you look ridiculous.” John adds, the barest hint of amusement breaking through. “Might want to get you out of the public eye.”

The man cracks a smile and extends a hand. “Stephen.”

John exhales and clasps their hands together. “John. And you're in London.”

\---

“Sorcerer? You can't expect me to believe that.”

John sets aside a flannel doused in antiseptic, shaking his head in incredulous amusement, and reaches across his kitchen table for a bandage. Stephen shrugs one shoulder in response and quirks an eyebrow.

“Seems most people don't.”

John huffs a quiet chuckle, affixing the bandage to Stephen's temple as he glances over at the pile of fabric Stephen had shed, and the pendant atop it. The eye of aga-something, he’d called it. And he claimed to be a sorcerer. Sherlock would have had a field day deducing him. John squeezes his eyes shut and lets his fingertips linger at the edge of dark hair and tanned skin.

They’d arrived at John’s flat, Stephen talking about a place called the London Sanctum and musing on how to get back to somewhere else called kamar-taj, if John recalled correctly. He understood none of it, but he listened, and he observed, and it was almost like having Sherlock back. He’d resolved to address everything problematic about this, after enjoying Stephen’s company.

Tending to Stephen’s wounds (more than one, as it turned out, after he’d removed the majority of the layers he wore) has proven a straightforward enough task, if only through superhuman effort on John’s part to keep his doctor resolve steady. Crowded close to Stephen as he is, both the differences and the similarities between this stranger and Sherlock stand out clearer than they had outside.

His hair, so different from Sherlock’s, seems entirely natural, as does his accent. But the eyes, the lips, the hands (and he’d have to find a polite way to ask how they’d been injured, because he is certain he would wager money that they had once been as beautiful and lithe as Sherlock’s), even the small brown spot on his neck - they scream Sherlock at him.

John has considered more than once that he is dreaming.

“So, uh,” Stephen says, hesitant, and John pulls his hands back to pick up the flannel once more. “This Sherlock guy. The one you mistook me for. What's the story there?”

John heaves a sigh and gently brings the flannel to a pattern of criss-cross scrapes just above the collarbone.

“He's dead.” Weariness, held at bay by the intrigue of the evening, creeps back into his voice. He rubs a hand over his face. “Been gone almost a year.”

“Ah. See, I'd have bet you had problems with him, the way you got up in my face. But-”

“Yeah, well, he was the type to trick people, to deceive when it suited him. And he was never really good with tact. Or feelings. Wouldn't have put it past him to fake being—” John pulls in a shaking breath. “And maybe, I've just been hoping…”

He shakes his head, and forces a wry grin. “Sorry, this must be strange enough for you as it is. I won't harp on.”

The expression on Stephen's face seems to hint that he has further questions or sentiments, but he remains silent as John finishes his ministrations and clears away his medical kit.

John stands, relieved yet disappointed to move out of Stephen’s personal space, and dithers in the kitchen, wondering whether to send him on his way to his mysterious Sanctum or to keep his company for a while longer.

The decision makes itself as he reaches for a bottle of scotch and pours for two.

“For shouting at you?” John offers the glass with a sheepish grin.

“For cleaning me up.” Stephen  accepts the drink with a good natured smile in response.

“Well,” John says, taking the seat across from Stephen at the table. “Now you'll have to elaborate about how you got here.”

\---

John hasn't the faintest idea how much time has passed, as he’s sat here getting to know this man that he suspects he rather likes, Sherlock doppelganger or not. His mouth is set in an ironic smile at the thought that this man, whom providence had unceremoniously dumped before him, could be so like Sherlock and so unlike him at the same time.  _ A sorcerer. _

But the man is a doctor, as well. A neurosurgeon, he'd mentioned briefly, before relating what John imagines is only very little of his incredible tale of his time in kamar-taj.

John swallows what remains in his glass, leaning forward across the table.

“I'm glad I met you, Stephen. Even if I manhandled you and thought you were Sher- someone else.”

“About that.” Stephen answers John's statement with a drop of his eyes and a shift in his chair. “About who you thought I was. Well. I've been wondering.”

John back straightens as he waits for Stephen to continue. He could hazard twenty guesses about what Stephen might say, but he doesn't. He waits.

“I’d thought it was someone on your shit list, you know, or something,” Stephen responds, slowly. “But the way you've been looking at me, well...”

The air thickens between them.

“You’re in love with him?”

John stills. There's no discomfort or judgment in Stephen's face, just a curious understanding. He looks so much like Sherlock in that moment that John feels it like a knife in his chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.” He sighs with what feels like his entire being. “Was.”

“No, you still are.” Stephen straightens in his own chair, forearms meeting the tabletop as he leans toward John. “I'm not even him, and hell, how you look at me. I’m just sorry if meeting me has made things more difficult.”

He sounds regretful, in more ways than one.

“No! It’s been… good. Insane, but good. I've enjoyed the evening with you, Stephen. You. Even if it is, I suppose, sort of like having him back.” He winces, and scoffs at himself. “God, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, honestly this is entirely one of the strangest things that’s ever happened to me.”

Stephen ducks his head, amusement coloring his exhalation. “Very strange, indeed.”

Then he stands, and before John can do more than straighten his posture, Stephen is kneeling in front of his chair. John’s hands are drawn up and placed at the edges of Stephen’s jaw, and for a moment, it’s Sherlock’s face he’s caressing, Sherlock’s pulse that he’s feeling under his fingertips, vibrant and alive. John’s throat constricts and he struggles to remain logical.

“You don’t have to…” John attempts to shift away, because he knows he  _ should _ , but his hands are held in place by larger ones. “I’m sorry. Sorry because this is bloody stupid, we had a drink, I’ve probably already put you off entirely, you're perfectly charming all on your own, you're  _ not Sherlock _ -”

His voice breaks again and he doesn’t continue.

“I know a thing or two about losing the most important thing in your life,” Stephen murmurs into the space between them, flexing his fingers over John’s. “You find your way, however you can. Sometimes it works out.”

His words sound dangerously like permission, John thinks, as an unwise desire for action settles into his abdomen. In the half-light of his flat, the differences between Stephen and Sherlock are less pronounced, and all John knows in this moment is a devastating attraction that he fears he isn’t adequately separating from his love for someone else, someone gone, someone dead. This isn't about Sherlock, not entirely, not after the past hour or two.

“Stephen, look,” John begins, but neither of them move away, and Stephen's eyes dart to his lips, then back up, and John inhales sharply .

“Stop thinking so hard,” Stephen tells him, half breathless and half sarcastic, and it's so appealing from this stranger with his accent, yet so  _ Sherlock,  _ that John can't resist any longer.

He leans down, fingers tightening around the back of Stephen’s neck, and brings their mouths together. He knows this won’t compare to the thoughts he’s had of intimacy with Sherlock, which he never had the chance to pursue, and he decides to count this as a positive, because Sherlock is  _ dead _ and Stephen is here, now, tempting and willing, and then John breaks. Scorching tears slip down his cheeks, and Stephen pulls back a fraction.

“Woah, woah, if you don’t… we, uh...” He’s already flushed, wanting but suddenly unsure, and John chokes out a laugh.

“Just tell me this is alright.” John grips the short hair at Stephen’s nape and strokes his cheek along a coarse beard, as a reminder of who this is, and who this is  _ not _ . “May I kiss you, Stephen?”

“Oh, you can do more than that,” he replies, tone relieved and full of a confidence that John can’t help but question in the limited parts of his focus that aren’t devoted to the rush of arousal sweeping through him. He slants their lips again and this time, there are soft groans with the contact, and he knows it’s probably too much, too fast, but Stephen doesn’t seem to care and John isn’t going to start.

“Right, okay,” he says, kicking back his chair as he stands, pulling Stephen up with him and bringing their bodies flush.

“You ever do this before?” Stephen all but gasps against his lips. “With a man?”

“Not for a long time,” John mouths back, a laugh rumbling. “You?”

“Can't say that I have,” is Stephen's reply, and it would be nonchalant if John weren't thrusting his hands past the layers of cloth he wears as trousers, impatient to get them out of the way. 

“Didn't think so,” John smirks, as they maneuver to the sofa, bodies meeting it gracelessly. Everything in him thrills at the idea of taking a man to bed again, no less this gorgeous man for whom John will be the first.

There's no acquiescence in the way Stephen moves against him, straddling his thighs, rough and dominant. John relishes it for the moment, relishes it because if he's honest, in his fantasies and in his observations, Sherlock was ever the submissive and pliant one. And he'd wanted it, wanted their dynamic so badly. Wanted whatever Sherlock was able to offer, and everything he could give back to the detective. John is grateful beyond compare that Stephen, seductive and arousing and  _ here _ and  _ now _ , will be nothing like what he'd imagined of Sherlock.

He manages one sharp tug down Stephen's arse, finally freeing him from the excessive dark fabric of his trousers, and he grins around the filthy slide of their tongues. Stephen pulls away and upward with a groan, and John's lips carry on down the column of his neck, hands pulling hips down.

“Could use some help,” he says between bites to a pectoral, trusting that the straining of his own hips will be all the elaboration Stephen needs. Shaking hands move to his belt and zip, and hesitate before cupping him through his pants. Air hisses through his teeth as he forces his hips to not buck up violently.

There's a pause in their flurry of motion, and Stephen exhales a nervous laugh.

“God damn, man, I wanna do this, I'm just a bit…”

“Please say inexperienced,” John rasps against his chest. “I'll lose my bloody mind if you say-”

“Noooo,” Stephen cuts him off, dragging the word as he affirms it with a roll of his hips that brings his bare erection against John’s clothed one. John clenches handfuls of arse and ruts against him, earning a glorious groan from Stephen, who tips his head back as his arms quiver. “I want it, ah, believe me.”

“Then let me,” John’s request is a growl as he seals his mouth to Stephen's again, straightening and pushing himself closer, trousers and pants wriggled down before he grasps both of their erections together in one hand.

Stephen tears away from the kiss with a shout. “Fuck!”

“Christ, I'd love to swallow you down,” John pants up at Stephen, hand moving with controlled strokes though he's burning for more. “Or fuck you, or be fucked  _ by  _ you-”

Stephen's hips stutter above him.

“But you've never been with a man, so here we are,” John continues, with a twist of his palm over the heads, to compensate for Stephen's lack of a foreskin. There's a distinct sound from the man that would be a whimper if his voice weren't so low.

“No, this is good, fuck, this is good,” Stephen tilts his head until their eyes meet, the verdigris heated and dark, and John tightens his grip around their cocks.

“Give it back to me,” John demands, thrusting to meet his own strokes. “God, you're brilliant, let me see how you look when you  _ fuck _ .”

Stephen's breath comes harsher, and he presses at John's shoulder to lower him slightly. The pain from John's bullet wound manifests as a spike of arousal, and he is pleasantly stunned, staring at Stephen above him. 

“I should have known you'd be a forceful one,  _ Captain,”  _ Stephen tells him, sucking the fingers of his free hand into his mouth before sliding them below their bollocks, all with a rising confidence that nearly brings John undone. “But you want it, despite that. You want it so  _ bad.” _

One finger presses into the cleft of his arse as Stephen grinds their cocks in a quick staccato. All the breath explodes from John's lungs as his unoccupied hand slams down onto a cushion and his hips convulse, and his teeth bite a bruising kiss against Stephen's lips as he fights down his climax.

“Fucking  _ christ,” _ he says, as the slide of their erections slow, but then his fingers dig into Stephen's back and he presses up, up, into the other man until he can feel sweat from Stephen's chest soaking through his button down.

He’s thrusting with abandon now, their cocks slick and firm in his hand, Stephen's fingers still insistent at his entrance. They're moaning and sighing past each other's lips, so close, and John tries to hold on, tries to commit to memory the experience of a tall, taut body moving with his, of iridescent eyes and high cheekbones and dramatic lips-

He's pushed over the edge, almost unexpectedly, and chokes out words that he will forever be grateful don't include the name “Sherlock”.

“God, christ, fuck,  _ Ste- ah, fuck!” _

Stephen tenses and groans his own broken curses as he comes apart above John, their foreheads together as they share breaths. John’s hands splay and wander over the expanse of Stephen’s back, bringing him back down to solid, warm reality.

\---

“If you're ever in London again, look me up. John Watson, MD.”

He switches off the kettle and carries the steaming mugs of tea to the sofa, as Stephen steps out of the bathroom to join him. They’re clean and sated, now, but John welcomes Stephen pressing down into his chest as if they’d never parted.

“Unique, that,” Stephen replies dryly, shifting against John and steadying his mug. “Probably easier if  _ you  _ looked  _ me _ up… hmm, no, definitely easier.”

“Go on then,” John says, laugh comfortable despite himself.

“Stephen Strange, world renowned neurosurgeon.” There's a pompous shift of his body; he'd left out his surname and his claim to fame when he'd mentioned his profession earlier.

“No shit.”

“Yep,” Stephen's lips pop on the p, and it's just one more thing that's too much for John, one more resemblance to the man he loves. He presses in for a languid kiss that trails just long enough for him to clench his eyes shut and pull away, smothering his face in the dip of Stephen's clavicle with a weak laugh.

“Thought you said you were a sorcerer.”

“Previously a neurosurgeon, yes,” Stephen says, a lilt in his voice that John knows would equal a quirk of eyebrows and bemusement on Sherlock's face. He wonders if it’s there in Stephen’s expression as well. “Omitted that, given your disbelief in my current work.”

“Show me sometime?” John pulls back to face him, and doesn’t bother hiding the hope in his voice.

“If you can assist me in finding the Sanctum, you’ll see for yourself,” Stephen answers. “And don’t worry, London’s never far away for me.”

He winks down at John, and the hint of adventure and enigma shiver pleasantly down John’s spine. He’ll sort through it all, eventually, and he knows that in the end Sherlock is the only thing that will ever be real for him, but for this moment, it’s enough to talk tea and sorcery with Stephen Strange.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](http://kimbiablue.tumblr.com/) and say hello! :)


End file.
